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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28070901">Blackheart</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/falindis/pseuds/falindis'>falindis</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate take on 'Get Thee Gone From My Gate', Hand Jobs, Lonely Feanor, M/M, POV Second Person, Reader Is Feanor, Secret Relationship, TSS20, Tolkien Secret Santa, What Happens in Formenos Stays in Formenos, seduced by the dark side</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 17:29:43</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,055</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28070901</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/falindis/pseuds/falindis</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>You see him coming from afar. Like a thundercloud, like the fall of night he approaches, the ground trembling in his wake. You shudder in anticipation: each part of you, even the ones you thought dormant or dead, awakening again.<br/>Flowers of frost bloom beneath his feet as he enters your garden. Here you enter as well, and this is where the story diverges from what we know.</em>
</p><p>An alternate take on the meeting of Fëanor and Melkor in Formenos, revealing the details that Fëanor never would reveal himself. Participates in the Tolkien Secret Santa exchange for 2020.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Fëanor | Curufinwë/Morgoth Bauglir | Melkor</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>9</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Tolkien Secret Santa 2020</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Blackheart</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kalendeer/gifts">Kalendeer</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>
  <em>“It is told that for a time Melkor was not seen again in Valinor, nor was any rumour heard of him, until suddenly he came to Formenos, and spoke with Fëanor before his doors. Friendship he feigned with cunning argument, urging him to his former thought of flight from the trammels of the Valar.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Now Fëanor's heart was still bitter at his humiliation before Mandos, and he looked at Melkor in silence, pondering if indeed he might yet trust him so far as to aid him in his flight. And Melkor, seeing that Fëanor wavered, and knowing that the Silmarils held his heart in thrall, said at the last: 'Here is a strong place, and well guarded; but think not that the Silmarils will lie safe in any treasury within the realm of the Valar!'”</em>
</p><p>This fic is based around the above quote taken from the Silmarillion. I wanted to explore an alternate take to their famous meeting in Formenos, in which Fëanor does not turn Melkor away instantly but instead listens to him. But since history is written by the winners, this side of the story has remained untold. Until now.</p><p>Gifted for calendille in the #TSS2020 exchange (prompt: Melkor/Fëanor.)</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Many often forget how easy it is to distort a story from the truth.</p><p>How easy it is to paint one side as the villain and one as the victim, only with words and carefully chosen emotions. How eager hearts are to embrace something that supports their own views as the truth, and how quick they are to reject those that would tumble the foundations that their beliefs stand upon.</p><p>Believe me, I know – for few tales have been as distorted as mine. They call me a liar, when I simply told the truth that they failed to see with their own eyes. They call me a thief, when I simply took what was rightfully mine. They call me the Enemy, although it is with I that they should be allied. If they understood the truth.</p><p>Alas, this is not the case. Perhaps it is too… <em>difficult</em> to see the tale through my eyes, through the one that they have been told should never be trusted. After all, it is easier to sympathize with those of our own kind. Those like <em>him.</em></p><p>He would never tell you this side of the story, for he is far too proud – and ashamed – for that. (And by now, dead). But you deserve to know the truth. It is simply your right.</p><p>So, for a short moment of your fleeting life, I will let you to see through his eyes. Forget who you were before this. For this tale only, you are him. You are Fëanor.</p><p>During this tale, you are home – although not really. Formenos has never been your home. Your home is in Tirion. But you were banished along with your sons, and you have had to make do. You are a survivor. There is something good in this too; at least you do not have to be near your terrible bore of a brother, or to bear the scorn of those that would judge you unjustly. Here you are… at peace, in a way, free to finally do what you wish. To <em>be </em>who you wish. It is a good life. A simple life.</p><p>(This is what you make yourself believe. It is easier to swallow than the truth. Lies always are.)</p><p>When he arrives – <em>I </em>arrive – you are home alone. It is not rare anymore – your sons are all grown up now, with your two eldest practicing policy or music elsewhere, your fourth and fifth occupied with their respectful professions. Even your two youngest are old enough now to join your third son on a hunt. And your wife, well. (I smile.) Everyone knows that your bed has been cold for a long, long time.</p><p>You see him coming from afar. Like a thundercloud, like the fall of night he approaches, the ground trembling in his wake. You shudder in anticipation: each part of you, even the ones you thought dormant or dead, awakening again.</p><p>Flowers of frost bloom beneath his feet as he enters your garden. Here you enter as well, and this is where the story diverges from what we know.</p><p>“Fëanáro”, he greets you – a rumble down in your very bones.</p><p>“Melkor.”</p><p>His lips curl at the sound of his name. There is a heat in the way you say it. He feels it too.</p><p>“Why have you come?” you continue.</p><p>“I heard the news of your banishment, and wished to witness it with my own eyes.”</p><p>You curl your eyebrows, a mix of confusion and anger. “So, you have come to mock.”</p><p>“Ah. Distrustful, as ever. Always you would see the worst in everyone.”</p><p>“Why are you here, then?”</p><p>“To talk.” He takes a step forward, and the grass decays beneath his feet. You do not admit it, you never do, but you find this sight fascinating. (In your world, that is synonymous for beautiful.) “To understand.”</p><p>“To manipulate, you mean. It is because of you that I drew my sword upon my brother. It is because of you that I was banished.”</p><p>He steps even closer – close enough to smell the frost and smoke of his skin. “Yes. But were your actions not just? There was no lie in them, and for those, you have been unjustly accused. You simply did what was your right. You are a son of kings, Fëanáro, and they treat you as they would a usurper.” His words shake with a passion that can only come through first-hand experience. This is one of the reasons you are drawn to him. Because there, you hear yourself.</p><p>Yet, you say nothing. He sees it in your eyes, though, that conflict. That Discord. He holds out his hand, smooth and cold as granite, and cups your cheek against it. You shudder.</p><p>“I see your heart, Fëanáro”, he continues, his voice low as a whisper. “I see the desire within you. And I can grant you that desire. For I care for the Noldor, unlike the other Valar, who would see you and your people humiliated. I care for <em>you.”</em></p><p>It is here that the first cracks appear in your resolve. It does not take much – shame still tastes bitter on your tongue – tinged with the bloody tang of anger. “Truly?”</p><p>“Yes. Look around you. Look at this place. A fine fortress, but do you truly think that it will keep you safe? Or <em>them? </em>The Valar will not hesitate, and it is only a matter of time when they come.”</p><p>This is where you crumble. It is no earth-shattering event. Nothing, like the stories make it seem. (This is the part where they lie the most.) But I <em>know. </em>There is nothing more in this world that you love like your children. And in a way, the Silmarils are like three more to your seven. To part with them would be to part with yourself.</p><p>So instead of slamming the door in the intruder’s face, you open it wider.</p><p>“Come in.”</p><p>After a short consideration, Melkor follows. He is so tall that he has to duck as he enters through the arch of your door into the elaborate yet functional hallway. Everything in here screams <em>you, </em>from the red-painted walls to the golden, six-pointed stars on the stair railings. The stars also decorate the floor, pointing your path as you make your way towards the halls deeper into the depths of the fortress. It grows darker as you descend the spiral stairs. Yet Melkor seems to show no discomfort here – on the contrary, he seems to delight in it. He blends in seamlessly with the shadows, occasionally so that it is hard to distinguish where he ends, and the darkness begins.</p><p>It takes almost physical effort to tear your gaze away from him. The air still feels electric, as if an invisible wire runs between you and him, sending shockwaves down to your bones. Your hands tremble as you pull out the keys into the inner sanctum, the part of your fortress which holds your most precious. You open the door, leading him into the treasure chamber.</p><p>Although you are too far underground for the Light of the Trees to reach, it is bright here – an effervescent radiance which seems to hold more colors than are visible to the naked eye. This light is everything, it holds the past and the future; a glow that transcends even time itself.</p><p>You feel Melkor’s eyes on you as your hands hover over the precious stones.</p><p>“Beautiful”, he says, beginning a slow walk towards you. You do not know if it is of the Silmarils or you that he speaks, but you like to make believe that it is both. (It is.) “This is a well-guarded fortress. But you must be careful. The Valar can be devious. Many of your sons have already fallen to their lure. I know of Turcafinwë’s dalliances with Oromë, of the way young Curufinwë worships Aulë. It will not be long before the rest of them fall under the seduction of the Valar. And what would be a greater trophy of their greatness than the treasures of Fëanáro?”</p><p>A sudden rage boils warm in your belly. “They are my dearest possession. I would die before I would see them in the hands of a Vala.”</p><p>(Careful what you wish for.)</p><p>“Good”, Melkor says. He is now so close you can feel the hot sting of his frosty breath on your neck. “It would be unfortunate if something so precious fell into wrong hands.”</p><p>His icy-cold fingers caress your cheek. You shiver, yet you lean towards the touch, closing your eyes. </p><p>“Melkor…” Your mouth falls open in a plea. A prayer. One that he willingly grants for you.</p><p>Your whole body tenses as his lips graze against yours; lightly, at first, like the gentle caress of a wave. You let them glide against yours. You float in the sensation: weightless, formless. But soon your body cannot wait any longer. You allow yourself to drown deeper, to be dragged under. You gasp breathless against his lips, clinging onto him like a single piece of debris still floating above the surface. This is no longer water, this is fire. It crackles against your skin, prickles each nerve until you cry out at the pleasure-pain. Your body arches against his as he lowers you upon the dais holding the Silmarils, their bright light burning even behind your closed eyelids.</p><p><em>More, </em>your body demands; brazenly, boldly. Melkor is glad to oblige, palming your groin above your breeches, and his touch sends a shock of lightning through you. This is a storm, each clash of your lips a thunderclap, each brush of his fingers a shower of sparks. You can no longer form coherent words as Melkor’s hands find their ways beneath the too-tight fabric, wrapping around bare skin. His fist is so large that it engulfs your shaft completely, and the sight takes your breath away.</p><p>Melkor smiles, a mouth full of teeth so white and sharp that they remind you of cut diamonds. A low rumble echoes from his mouth as his fist begins a slow, tectonic grind, skin sliding against skin. This is orogeny, this is mountains being destroyed and reborn. Your body is his to mold. Beneath his increasing pressure you are shaped, transformed, and no longer can you resist. The earth quakes beneath your back as you willingly thrust into his hand, pounding into it as if you would into the metal you forge. The pressure builds, peaks, and your ears pop as you come with an earth-shattering growl. Even long after the eruption the aftershocks continue, rolling across the land until they finally subside, and all stands still once more.</p><p>You lie there for a long time, boneless and without care for anything besides <em>this.</em></p><p>But it is not in your nature to remain still, and gracefully, you gather yourself, smoothing the stray hairs from your forehead, wiping the sweat from your brow. You clean the come from your stomach, tuck yourself in. In a time that could fit in ten heartbeats, you go from a shaking, undone mess into the king of the Noldor once more. From your outer appearance, no-one could suspect that you just gave your body to the God of Chaos.</p><p>Only your words betray you, and even them, only to him.</p><p>“Nerdanel”, you whisper. “Nerdanel can never know.”</p><p>“She will not”, he reassures. He does not blame you for your transgression; it has been a long time since you have felt this way. “What we have belongs to us only.”</p><p>You do not reply, although your heart, it <em>aches. </em>(We. What we have.)</p><p>“Heed my words”, Melkor says before he goes, “the Valar <em>will </em>come for you. It is only a matter of time.”</p><p>You avert your gaze beneath his piercing-blue stare, unwilling to let him further beneath your skin.</p><p>(Your struggle is futile, though. Every particle of your being already belongs to me. But know this:</p><p>My dear Fëanáro, my lust for the Silmarils was always inseparable from my lust for you.)</p><p>He leaves. He never touches you again, except in your dreams. But his fingers really never leave your skin, nor do you ever forget the sound of his voice. Not even after you curse his name and wish you had never let his blackened fingers into your heart.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thank you for reading! Kudos and comments are always appreciated ♥</p></blockquote></div></div>
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